


A Heavy Crown

by SpoonerizeSwiftness (SplickedyHat)



Series: Heavy In Your Arms [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Abolished Hemospectrum, Emperor!Tavros, Explicit Language, Flushed Romance | Matesprits, M/M, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-05
Updated: 2013-08-05
Packaged: 2017-12-22 11:26:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/912646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SplickedyHat/pseuds/SpoonerizeSwiftness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You ain't accustomed to taking hard looks at yourself, or thinking over what you see there, but there are eyes on you now, from your palemate and your flushed sweetheart and from all the stars in Alternia's sky.  Maybe it's time to start looking.</p><p>In the aftermath of his crawl out of the gutter, a tired purple-blood shakes free of his drugs and his handlers and goes looking for something new.  And in the process, finds some things are bigger and more important than he ever thought; his moirail, his new maybe-something-more friend, the Alternian Empire, and even himself. [Sequel]</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Heavy Crown

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Shinju_Tori](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shinju_Tori/gifts).



> For Shinju_Tori, who suggested a GamTav drabble to go along with my first story. UuU And for all the other readers and commentors of this story, who have been so wonderful and said such wonderful things about this baby universe of mine. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.

Universe Prompt and art by the wonderful [Toastyhat](http://toastyhat.tumblr.com/)! :)

* * *

Your name is Gamzee Makara, and a handful of weeks and some weird motherfuckin’ days ago you had no idea what you were missing out on.

You are awake, alive, and your pan is aching but missing those little jumps and glitches and fogs that made it so hard to think in straight lines before.  Of course, straight lines still ain’t really an easy motherfucking proposition, but you’re getting the hang of at least only staggering a little from thought to thought.  And you just left a troll behind in the room you woke in as wants to be your moirail and you find that the most miraculous motherfucking thing as ever occurred.  And you are walking with a troll, has a smile so very fucking warm and eyes big and brown and looks to be the like of blood color you’d never even see normal-like.  But here he is, all smiling that warm smile at you, and for some reason for all the warm, it’s makin’ you shiver.  He’s walkin’ you through hallways much bigger than you’ve ever been in, pretty plain but just _big_ is all, and you wonder a little where you are.

Ain’t your place to wonder.  You just smile and be grateful, do your best not to all unbalance what must have balanced so sweet on some thread out there in the universe, that you’re here in the warm—awake, alive. 

Oh and he’s talkin’ to you.  Yeah. 

“—sorry,” your new bro Tavros says, when you blink and jump a little bit.    “You look like you’re pretty much asleep even though you’re standing up, so you must be really tired I guess.”

You are motherfuckin’ wiped and you feel as like your bones is all full of knees and elbows where they oughtn’t to be, so you wobble all over like you’re high again.  But hey, you’ll do fine.  “I’ll bide,” you say, and then kinda spoil the truth of that as you yawn so big all your bones creak.  Your legs decide to wobble off all sorts of ways as were not in your instructions to them, and you make peace with the fact of the floor’s soon-to-be close and personal knowing of your face—

A pair of real solid, warm arms catches you sudden and sure and hauls you upright.  Your new friend tries to let you go, face all brown, once you’re upright; your legs find that motherfucking hilarious and show off all their giggles and subtlest mockery by tipping you right over towards the ground again before he does more than step away.  He catches you again and this time he hangs on.

“Is this okay?”  He asks, fidgety, and you find it to be very much so.  He is warm.  He is something to lean on.  He is so _warm_.  No you already noticed that, but it bears to be noticed again reason being _fucking_ warm, _mmm._ “I mean, I wouldn’t want to, uh…to make you, um…”

You lean your head on his shoulder and sort of snort and laugh into his chest, because everything is really bright and loud and funny.  You think you get out words tellin’ him you feel _just motherfucking faaaantastic_ but you can’t get your certainty on of that because everything is going syrupy and fuzzy and too fast for your pan.

Feels familiar.

Feels high.

“…oh,” he says somewhere, far off and worried, and you feel him hitch you up a little, fidgets an arm right ‘round you and pull you along next to him.  “…um…it’s a ‘flashback’, I think I heard, you should probably lie down.  Um…here.”

You close your eyes, and let him carry your weight.

\--

You talk to Karkat about it later, and you find out you were just smiling and yawning and you fell over, had to be hauled to a couch and left there for a while till you stopped laughing and slurring random shit like sense was a thing what you took a giant fucking some-kind-of-leap off of.  Karkat came and went, and you tried to tell him something about the color of brown, which you can’t fathom what it was because you were basically not at home in your pan right then. 

God, shit’s embarrassing.  You weren’t ever embarrassed of things before, it wasn’t exactly a thing you missed.  And when he comes knocking again, looking big and sad-happy and tired and sweet as he ever did, you have some large amount of trouble meeting his eyes for the first handful of minutes.  You’re all ready for the serious big questions.

“…Have you ever had cluckbeast soup?”  He asks instead, and instead of serious big questions, you are miraculously provided with glorious nourishment that makes your eyes well up with just plain how fucking _good_ it is.  And he smiles at you, and doesn’t ask.

He still don’t ask, don’t push too hard for answers on any single thing, as weeks go past.  You spend more time talking about dumb shit together than doing the serious big questions he said he’d have to ask you, and he always quits the second you start to get jumpy over the whole ordeal.  You throw out some slam poetry for the first time in fucking ever, and he comes back in kind and fucking hell if it ain’t just the cutest shit with all his little pauses and stumbles.  It’s rad and you like it a whole ton, so you make sure you rap with him a lot more after that and you think he has a time as bitchin’ as you do.

It feels like a sweep later, but it’s more like a half-perigee when he kinda settles down next to you all serious, and he finally asks you about places you been.

He asks you about your friends, as you’re told now weren’t no true friends of yours.  He asks about how you got business and where you slept, how they found you and brought you in and what kind of pills they gave you.  He tells you about how it would have been, if you’d done a job like that on the rules that are there instead of Vriska sending you out the back door and not handing you what he tells you should have been yours.  You can’t fathom how she’s the one as owes you shit, and you sitting in her house and using her sopor patches and stuff, but she should have been giving you credits too? Wow.

He stops asking after a while, held up like he wants to say something but he can’t force it out, and you smile a little at him, so’s he knows you’re not upset---well, not more’n a little bit anyway, shit’s only motherfuckin’ upsetting if you think on it too much.  You aim to reassure, but he just looks kind of sad by it. 

“…and…that’s when Karkat found you?”  He asks, and your smile drops off your face.  That ain’t a thing you want to think on, not particular, even with so much time standing between it and you.  But you know he don’t mean harm by it and you sort of shrug up your shoulders and nod. 

“And you…you didn’t realize you were pale for each other—I mean, not that time, you actually—?”

“I…yeah.  We…yeah.”  You can still remember that hollowed-out feeling you got, forcing yourself to touch him in the ways that felt all very wrong inside; it echoes back to you at the simplest hint of remembering it.  “That was some…some honestly truly most unwanted motherfucking shit right there.  Felt all wrong inside, y’know?”

“I’m sorry, I guess because you had to go through that,” he says, and even if you ain’t actually hurting like he seems to think you are, it’s truly fucking sweet to see how he looks at you, all warm and sad and sorry. “There’s laws and things, but there’s only so much laws can do.”

You smile at him, and feel it come out all dopey and dumb and don’t really care.

“Weren’t a thing,” you assure him, and then, riding on the sudden high of the sweet little uncertain smile he gives you, “…wouldn’t have minded so much,” you admit, kind of soft, kind of hoping.  “…if it was you.”

\--

“You said _what?!_ ”

Gamzee flinches a little—you do not care.  You are incandescent with pale pity and rage in almost equal measures.  Well no, not very equal.  Basically just rage right now, actually.  You are pretty sure if you become any more frustrated with your moirail’s inability to be anything approaching tactful, your frustration will manifest as diamond-cutting laser beams shooting out of your eyes.

“How is that something you thought you should _say_?!”  You snap at him—“—‘Oh, by the way, when I was a concupiscent hire I wouldn’t have minded getting hired by you’?!  Why don’t you just, I don’t know, take off all your clothes in front of him and hand him a bucket, that might be less embarrassing than you trying to make conversation! Sufferer’s pestilential mutated fucking ichor—!”

“Sorry,” he mumbles—his ears are going purple, and he’s doing the hunching-down thing he does when he’s secretly entertaining the ridiculous idea that you might dump him if he doesn’t seem sufficiently sorry.  “I didn’t—he didn’t look mad…”

You calm down just enough to be curious. (The pale stab in your guts when he looks that lost doesn’t hurt the process.)  “What the hell _did_ he say?”

“Said, uh…” Gamzee fidgets.  “…went all brownish, y’know, said that was, uh…that he was glad, he guessed?”

Huh.  Nitram as you knew him, sweeps ago, would have sputtered and flailed and worried and honestly fucked the situation all to hell.  Maybe a couple sweeps as the emperor has done him more good than you thought. 

“Okay,” you allow, “—that could be worse, I guess.”  You frown at him.  “…well that means he wasn’t expecting that, didn’t know you felt that way, because he’s a moron.  But he doesn’t really…he’s not against it, I guess.”  You consider carefully, then say, slowly, “…wait.  See what his next move is.  Could be worse.  At least he didn’t freak out.”

\--

Your name is Tavros Nitram and you’re sort of freaking out.

Apparently you’re attractive.

“Of course you’re attractive!”  Your moirail assures you brightly, and paps your cheek firmly.  “That isn’t the important part, Tavros.  Get to the important part!  The part that’s making you freak out.”

Apparently you’re attractive to Gamzee Makara.

Aradia laughs for a full minute.

“You _only just_ figured that out, didn’t you?”  She giggles and throws her arms around your neck fondly, nuzzling her nose ticklishly into your shoulder.  “—oh my god you’re so helpless sometimes, it’s adorable!”

Apparently Gamzee Makara has been smiling wistfully at you every time your back is turned for almost a perigee and a half now and you haven’t noticed.

“It’s the worst-kept secret in the whole place,” Aradia informs you.  “He’s hopelessly flushed for you.  But the fact that he hasn’t made a move means he doesn’t know whether you reciprocate.”  She raises her eyebrows at you.  “… _do_ you reciprocate?”

You flail and sputter and somehow she magically picks what you’re trying to say out of your babbling and confused exclamations. 

“Okay, well, if you’re not sure, _try it!_ ”  She exclaims, and as you take a theoretically soothing drink, she throws her arms around you again and gazes soulfully up at you like the flushed heroine of some romance novel.  “ _Touch him_ ,” she intones, “— _like a lover._ ”  And then, as you’re choking and coughing, “—if there’s an upside to dating a former concupiscent hire it’s that he probably knows what he’s doing.  Besides.”  Her voice softens, losing its teasing edge.  “…you seem so much happier when you’re with him.  You really do, Tavros.”

“But…”  You trail off, bewildered by that weird, amorphous fear in your guts.  You try again.  “…but—if he—if we—I’d have to tell him who I am, Aradia, I don’t want him to…”

“Change?”  She supplies gently, and sighs, smiling at you.  “…can you really imagine him treating you any differently just because you have a title in front of your name?”

“...n…no.”  It’s true, he seems to have no real conception of class boundaries.  Even when he passes people who know about his former job, when they throw those dirty looks at him you know he sees, he doesn’t seem to let it get him down.  You’re still not sure he even knows why they would dislike him. 

You’ve still been demoting anyone who you catch looking at him like that, though.  Just on principle.

“Even if he does change,” she says, and she slips her warm fingers under your chin and turns your face up to hers.  “…change isn’t always bad.  Just think about it, alright?”

She hugs you one last time, presses a chaste kiss to the top of your head and then slips away from you in a swirl of cinnamon-red skirts.  She pauses in the doorway and glances back at you.

“ _…like a_ lover _,_ ” she repeats theatrically, and waggles her eyebrows at you.  And then she’s gone, leaving nothing behind her but the warmth of the places where she was and an echo of wickedly gleeful laughter.

\--

What you end up doing—for a few nights anyway—is…nothing.  You visit most nights after all the really important work is done.  You rap, hang out—actually kind of a lot, even when you really should be getting to sleep so you aren’t wiped out the next night.  You bring him dinners from the banquets and he practically inhales them but doesn’t mention the fact that he’s still hungry even though he obviously is.  He looks at you.  He watches you.  Now that you know it’s happening, you can’t stop noticing, and it’s embarrassing, flattering, scary and kind of weird and exciting all at the same time. 

He hangs on you, too.  You didn’t notice before—you just thought he was really close with everyone, but really he isn’t.  He keeps his distance from most people, and avoids their eyes except to give them these little hopeful half-smiles like maybe this time they’ll react like halfway decent mature adults instead of bigoted six-sweep-olds who throws rocks at cold-bloods in the streets. 

But you can’t do anything about the talking and the looking and the hanging onto you thing, because whenever you try, you end up getting cold feet at the last second.  You actually panic halfway through saying something once and accidentally invite him to ‘dinner’—which is to say the upcoming banquet where he would probably be killed on principle by someone’s bodyguard for showing up unannounced.  Thankfully he immediately sits up and starts assuring you that you don’t need to do that, you’ve done plenty, he’s just motherfuckin’ fine and he ain’t ever been so happy anywhere and so on until both of you basically forget the offer ever happened.

Right now, you’re leading him down a hallway to a room you found a while ago that you didn’t even know was here—you have no idea, really, what they think you’re going to do with all this space.  Just because you’re the emperor sort of doesn’t mean you need to have more than fifty respiteblocks.  But you found this place a few nights ago and you immediately thought it would be kind of an awesome place to hang out.  There was a bunch of furniture all shoved in there together, like someone got tired of furnishing a bunch of rooms and just pushed it into the middle of one room together instead and you could hang out there for—oh, there it is.

You walk up, shove the door open, peer in at the dark inside—

The room is basically empty.  There are a couple of little tables left, standing around in little clusters like really strange-looking fungi or mushrooms or something.  Right in the middle, there’s one big, kind of throne-ish chair.

There’s nothing else.

“Oh, okay, what,” you say to the world in general, and he follows you in and stops just a little closer than most people do.  You can feel his breath just barely ruffling against one of your wings.  “There’s supposed to be a whole lot of stuff in here, like, so we could sit wherever we wanted—”

“Hey,” he says, and bumps you with one shoulder.  You sway a little bit—it’s been so long since someone was comfortable enough to just touch you casually, you’re never ready for it anymore.  (It’s nice, it’s….really nice.) “—don’t really matter, bro, as chairs go, that’s one big motherfucker of a chair.  Don’t see as we couldn’t crash down here after all, since you came all this way and it’s all sorts of nasty outside…”

He sounds hopeful.  Oh god.  Okay.  Well, there’s nothing too…uh…it _is_ a big chair, and occasionally you do sit right next to each other (and on top of each other sometimes) on the floor.  Sharing a chair isn’t too weird, right?

Yeah. No, of course not.                              

You go first, like you always seem to—as comfortable as he seems to be getting with being around you, he still doesn’t like to lead the way when there’s someone else who can lead for him.  You wonder briefly if that’s a defense mechanism, if letting theother person take charge is an important thing to learn in his former line of work, and then shiver a little and try not to think about it right now.  You can think about emperor things later.  For now you don’t want to be his emperor, you want to be his friend.  And there’s a big difference. 

The chair is a massive, ancient thing, with so much cushion you feel for a second like it’s trying to eat you, and you end up kind of slumped in it diagonally before he comes edging over and slumps down onto the other side of the chair with you, wedging himself up against the other arm of it.

His elbow touches your side; his hand grazes against your thigh as he pulls it out from between you and you jump and thankfully manage to choke down a noise like someone just…

All the examples that come to mind of what exactly would make you make that noise are not appropriate and are making it very difficult to concentrate on just platonically being sat on by him.  Like you are being bros.

You sit in comfortable silence for a little while—or at least, he seems to be comfortable.  You are basically sweating like a hoofbeast.  His legs are thrown over yours, you can feel the muscles in his thighs tense when he leans back and shifts his weight, and it kind of feels like your head is going to explode.

You are freaking out.  But you are the emperor, and emperors don’t freak out, not even when their friends who might be actually pretty pitiable and sort of attractive and maybe really really like them are practically sitting in their laps.  Not even when their friend kind of turns around and says—

“I gotta talk to you.”

You blink at him for about thirty seconds before you get your head together and manage, _without_ too much embarrassing stutter, “…uh—uh, okay, what about—do you want to talk, I—uh.  I mean.  About what?”

“About,” he starts, and then stops and chews his lip.  “…about, uh.  Stuff.  About.  Me…stuff?  Motherfuck.”  He drags his hands over his face, and when he takes them away and starts again you can tell he’s concentrating on every word.  “…My bro said I should…wait for you to…say something,” he says, very carefully.  “…but I figure…waiting is dumb and it’s what I…I kept tryin’ that.  Before.  This.  And him.  And…” He glances at you—away again, and you see purple creeping into his cheeks.  “…I kept tryin’ that before,” he repeats, “…and it didn’t do motherfucking shit-all for me.  So I guess I’ll say sorry to him later.”

There’s a moment of silence, and you let it sit for a while before you take a deep breath and take the plunge.

“…this is about what you said the other day, isn’t it?” 

He winces.  Yeah, you think you saw the beginning of the conversation he must have had with Karkat.  You’re not surprised the thought pins his ears back.  “I really didn’t mind,” you assure him, although at the time you really kind of did, but not like you didn’t like it, just…

…you’re confusing yourself.  You cut that train of thought off, because remembering how confused and flustered you felt isn’t going to help you right now when there is obviously pretty important stuff going on.

“Why don’t you just start that again?”  You suggest, a little bit shakily but overall pretty solid.  That’s good.  He’s obviously not too certain about what’s going on, so it’s kind of your job right now.  If that’s not too pale of a thing to think, which you hope it isn’t because that would be really completely inappropriate right now.  He nods, takes a deep breath.

“I’m supposed to listen to my moirail, leave you alone until you do somethin’,” he says, and he hesitates, then sits up and swivels around a little so he can look at you face to face. 

The fact that this ends with him straddling your thighs is an unexpected and actually pretty pleasant bonus.  It also kind of makes it hard to breathe, for reasons that have nothing to do with his weight on you and everything to do with the fact he’s looking at you head-on and straight in the eyes.

“You can’t wait around for me to do things,” you say, a little bit more croakily than you intend to.  “…Nothing will ever get done, I’m, uh…I get all…nervous.”

He laughs at that, his familiar laugh with his pointed face all scrunched up and all his teeth showing.  His long fingers trail a few inches down your arm and it makes you shiver for some reason when one thumb strokes the inside of your elbow.  Your skin is prickling and warm.

“…well then if you’re gonna get nervous,” he says plainly, and you see the breath he catches to calm himself, and hey, maybe he’s not actually that much braver than you.  Maybe he’s just better at shutting down the part of his brain that worries.  “…then I guess maybe I’m gonna have to make the first move, huh…?”

You have been kissed once or twice before, with varying degrees of enjoyment.  Those kisses mostly told you that the other person was uncomfortable, or terrified of you, or occasionally even that they were enjoying it and intended to keep kissing you.

This is a new one because it’s about 10% pure, almost platonic affection, 40% a sort of flushed, intimate gentleness and the remaining half is urgent lust.  You’ve never been kissed by someone like they wanted to follow it up by—well.

He seems to notice you’re floundering—he pulls back a little and presses his cool cheek to yours instead, and you can feel his breath on your ear.  _“We can stop_ ,” he mumbles, but the fact that he says it right in your ear and then presses a loose, lazy kiss to your throat a second later makes it really, really hard to remember why objecting was even a thing you thought about doing.  There’s something about the way he kisses your skin— _slow, careful, hungry and reverent—_ that’s making muscles tense and twitch all over and basically turning you on more than you thought was possible.  “… _I can stop…_ ”

“I don’t…I don’t want you to,” you say, and find that that’s the truth.  Your moirail’s voice keeps poking at you, in the back of your mind, _try it.  Try it._   And.  Well.  He’s sitting in your lap.  And you’re really tired and all the tension that was bothering you is sort of melting away every time he breathes on your neck or shifts his weight a little and yes alright you could get used to this in a hurry. 

So why are you still hesitating?

Common sense tells you, _don’t worry, you know what his job was, he’s had far worse than you._

…worry whispers _you know what his job was, he’s had far better._

“—I’m just embarrassed?”  You admit, and he gives you a look like he knows there’s more going on in your head than that.  He doesn’t push, though.

“Ain’t nothin’ to be embarrassed about,” he says instead, and for some reason it’s not the press of his body or his breath on your neck that makes you shiver this time—it’s his hand on your back.  Your wings are prickling, twitching in little aborted flutters with every shudder and gasp, and his fingers are tracing little circles just below the bases of them.  You…aren’t sure what it would feel like, how you would react, if he touched them just now.

You kind of want to find out.

“ _Nothin’_ to be embarrassed about,” he repeats, and he resettles himself on your lap, looking right at you.  “You are a sweet-ass motherfucker.”

It’s not really clear to you whether he’s complimenting you on personality, looks, anatomy, any/all or none of the above, but you blush horribly anyway.

“I—I don’t really know—it’s been –kind of a long time since—”

“ _Shhh_ ,” he mumbles, but the paleness of the sound is dampened by the way his hand traces a wandering line down the muscles of your back, too deliberate to be intended for comfort.  “— _I got this.”_

His hands start to slide your jacket off you inch by inch and maybe it’s stupid how easily you shiver and lean into it and _let_ him—

There’s a sharp knock on the door.

There’s no time to get him off your lap—you pull him closer instead, pressing him down, and wrap your wings around him a split second before the door opens.  There won’t be enough of him visible to identify—your wings are thick enough he’ll be nothing but the vague form of a body, but thin enough you know it will be fully clear you’re…uh…in the middle of something.

The man in the door sees your wings, the shape of someone kneeling in your lap, the look on your face and the color of your cheeks, and gapes for a split second.  But you have to give him credit, he gets over it quickly, and doesn’t stare or stammer.  In fact, he keeps a fairly excellent straight face.

“Your majesty,” he says, and oh god you feel Gamzee fill up with that strange tension— _I don’t understand is not understanding going to get me in trouble?_   You squeeze him just a little tighter and he relaxes some, but not much.  “The ambassador from Tarach sent word his landing will be delayed by the hurricanes on the southern coast.  He begs you not to inconvenience yourself by delaying the banquet.”

“Delay the banquet,” you say immediately, and you try not to think about the figure curled up against your chest, how this is in every way the wrong way to tell him this, how this isn’t what you wanted—“—have him redirected to the landing grounds in the Western palace and we’ll only have to wait an hour or two at most. Tell him specifically that I’m delaying it by imperial decree, he’ll have to show up or look ungrateful and that way he’ll be out of his element.  It’ll be nice to get some honest answers out of Tarach.  Maybe messing up their ambassador’s choreography of the evening will get the truth in the open.”  You blink, and then smile at the messenger, a little nervously.  “…uh, sorry.  Did you get all that?”

The messenger grins and throws a deep bow, scattering water off his cloak—it must be raining outside, no wonder there’s been so little traffic through this part of the palace—and your respect for him increases.  He must have slogged here through the rain to get you a message that really could have waited until tomorrow, and now because he was willing to brave the storm you have a tactical advantage on one of the most troubling and contentious border colonies.  You give him a long, hard look; he has very even, pointed teeth that make you think maybe he’s actually a coldblood.  If he is, he’s risen up the ranks well.  A coldblood who can not only get a job in a government position, but work tenaciously enough to make a position of power would be a good person to have on your side. 

“…tell your superiors you’re promoted,” you say, and it’s taken you ages practicing for Aradia to get that casual sort of commanding thing to happen with your voice, but you even manage an airy sort of hand wave.  “I’ll put out some kind of paperwork in the morning.”

His eyebrows rise, but he doesn’t argue or ask questions, just snaps off a salute.  “I’ll pass your message along directly!” He turns to the door, and actually dares another white-toothed grin and a wink as he ducks out.  “…forgive my intrusion.”

You give it five seconds and then unwrap your wings.  You almost don’t dare to look down at him—he doesn’t raise his head from where it rested against your chest.  He barely moves even to breathe.

“…Gamzee?”

“Sorry,” he mumbles, and your pump biscuit squeezes tight like there’s a giant hand trying to crush you out of existence.  You can only make a sort of questioning sound, and he pushes himself upright and looks at you.  At least, he starts to.  But he won’t meet your eyes.

“I’m sorry,” you return convulsively, and he shakes his head quickly and _still won’t look at you_.  “I didn’t want you to find out like this, I should have told you—”

I should’ve listened,” he says, and he sounds feverish, almost frenzied.  “—they said I shouldn’t get near you, you were too good for me, they didn’t say…”

…and there’s your mistake, right there; that he’s not conscious of what people say about him may be true, but what people say _to_ him he takes to heart, he values every opinion, he listens to his ‘friends’—

“I should—I shouldn’t be…” he starts to stand up—your legs are all tangled together and he scrambles clumsily to pull free, still not looking at you, mumbling apologies when he jostles you or knocks knees.  “—I’ll just get…”

“Please don’t do this,” you say, but your voice sounds bleak and small even to you.  “…please don’t, I hoped you wouldn’t do this—”

“No, I get it now,” he assures you, except you aren’t assured at all, you’re scared and upset and wish you’d never been crowned.  “—I get it, no worries.  It’s been made…plenty motherfuckin’ clear to me, what that job made of me.”  He looks bleakly pained, sobriety weighing heavy on his shoulders, and you remember all over again that he never even thought about it, that for him all he was doing was making someone feel good, helping them through drone season unscathed.  He never thought there would be disgusted glares, sneers, a heavy reputation for the rest of his life.

You feel a sudden need to track down the ones who have been educating him on the subject, and not to shake them by the hand.

“I shouldn’t be touchin’ someone like you,” he finishes quietly, and huddles a little bit where he sits.  His fingertips touch the scars on his neck absently, and trace the place where the collar fed drugs into his blood.  For a second the silence of his contemplation is so thick and heavy, you can’t even move to breathe.

“…Gamzee—” you finally manage to choke out, and he jumps and looks up at you.  He doesn’t look sad anymore, not really.  The pain has drained out of him, and it’s left him…tired.  He looks so _tired_.

“…I done and motherfuckin’ ruined myself,” he says softly.  “Now I just gotta deal with it.”

He starts to pull away, to stand up—you hold on and he stares at you, softly surprised.

“Bro,” he says, like you’re the one who needs someone to be gentle with them, and you understand all of a sudden why flushed feelings are supposed to come from our blood-pusher; your heart is breaking with pity and everything _aches_.  “This ain’t right.”  He pulls a little bit, and you remember how just a few minutes ago he was touching your face, talking to you so easily, easing his fingertips under the collar of your shirt.  “Let go now, I’ll let you up and get on with—”

A sweep and a half ago you would have let him go.

A sweep and a half ago you weren’t the goddamn emperor.

You reel him down by one long arm and kiss him again and again and _again_ and he goes still and tense and then holds on to you tighter and tighter every second.  Every time you pull away to breathe he keeps trying to tell you he doesn’t deserve you; he’s ruined, they said, a whore, they said, he doesn’t belong here and everybody knows it.

“ _Do you_ want _to?_ ”  You ask, and he shudders all over and holds on so tight his grip is painful.  “—do you want to belong here?  With me—I mean, well, with me and Karkat of course—”

“ _More than any single motherfucking thing,_ ” he says, and his eyes are clear and blazing for a moment before the fire drowns in uncertainty, fear, pain.  “—but bro, I can’t do for you what I did for them, it ain’t right I should even _want—_ ”

“Then _don’t_.” 

He jumps and stares at you—you do your best not to spontaneously combust from embarrassment, because you didn’t even want to have an Emperor Voice but you just did it without even thinking about it and _fuck it._  

“…I shouldn’t get what they got, anyway,” you say firmly, and draw yourself up like you actually deserve to rule.  He stares at you like you’re amazing, and maybe if he believes it that hard it’s a little more true.  “—I’m the emperor, whether I like it or not.”  And then his face starts to crumple back into that resigned, empty stare, and the words you were choking on force themselves out without your consent.  “—you should—really you should pail me much _more_ and also much better than them because I’m in charge and I don’t want to share stuff this time for once.  And also stop saying bad stuff about yourself.  And.  You should also treat me like me and not like the emperor, but, uh, still follow those orders I just gave you because they’re important and you’re really pitiable sometimes and I do actually pity you.  Um…a whole lot.”

He stares at you, and you are treated to the entirely unfamiliar sight of his face going rich purple all over.

“By order of the emperor, go back to doing that thing with your mouth?”  You try, and then yelp as he dives forward and wraps his arms so tight around you he almost lifts you out of your chair.  His right hand clutches between the knobbly, chitinous plates of your wing-beds and _wow_ , you kind of just basically writhe around and make helpless chirping, gasping noises at that, because _wow._

You would be more coherent with yourself about what you’re feeling but really, _wow_ is all you’re turning up when you try, so you run with it.  He freezes when you yelp, but Aradia was right, he’s more used to this than you’ve ever been and he starts doing it on _purpose_ instead, rubbing the tense muscles and the seam where your wings meet your back and oh _god…_

_\--_

Your name is Karkat Vantas, and you are finding out more about the tendencies and preferences of the emperor of the Alternian Empire than you would ever even think of wanting to know _ever_ —in fact actually you kind of want to gouge out your auricular sponge-clots with a culling fork. 

 “I got orders from the emperor,” as Gamzee put it, and “the emperor” had _blushed,_ and goddamn but the look on their faces is ridiculous and makes you stupidly happy and very, very angry at the same time _._   “I gotta go do what I do best, see you at dinner, bro.”  He had grinned at you, and you had been treated to the unwelcome observation that there was a purple bite mark on one of his collarbones.  “—oh hey, did you know his—”

You had thrown yourself flat on the couch, cover your head with a pillow and howled in horror until they went away.

You can’t do that every time, though, because you would spend a ludicrous and completely unconstructive amount of time lying on your couch and howling in horror.  As much as you feel like doing that whenever Gamzee mentions his matesprit—who you are stubbornly resisting the urge to warm up to, fuck him and fuck his ridiculous genuinely humble and self-deprecating kindness—you sit dutifully through it, because hell.  It makes Gamzee happy.

\--

It’s almost a perigee after you ‘unofficially’ threw in with the Imperials when Nitram finally gets everyone he needs together and shows up in your hivesuite looking sheepish and tired and tugging his collar open as he walks in.

Of course, because Nitram has the worst luck in the universe and the universe fucking hates you, he walks in just as you’re in the middle of spilling your guts into Gamzee’s cool, bony shoulder, finally worked down from your whirring tension enough to jam for real.  You are so mellow it actually takes you a few seconds to realize he’s even there, and then you open your eyes and there’s a looming statue of brown-faced mortification standing frozen in the door with its mouth hanging open.

He ducks out, trailing apologies behind him, and you are still so helplessly blissed out and limp all you can manage to do is bang your head against Gamzee’s shoulder and spit out a few slurred curses before he scritches at the back of your neck and says, encouraging and only slightly shaky with embarrassment, “… _still listenin’, bro._ ”  And you are too tired to argue.

You are still tired when you are done, but you are also much better prepared to deal with his imperial imbecility than you would have been ten minutes ago.  Gamzee goes and gets him, and you see them pause in the doorway—you’re still sort of dully surprised still to see Tavros pull your moirail down for a kiss, rather than the other way around, and you ruminate again on the fact that he really is different from the kid you knew.  It’s kind of disturbing, seeing him make decisions on the spot with something that actually approaches confidence, and especially seeing him do the thing where he slips into political mode and firmly but politely suggests ways to completely wreck his opponents’ shit.

“Okay,” he says, when you’re all settled down, and you recognize his business voice.  Oh yeah, it’s such a good thing you’re still floating on afterglow, this is going to be one of those talks that gives you a headache.  “So everyone is all gathered up, that I need to be here, I mean.  I think…it’s about time we made it official, that you’re part of this…whole…” he waves a hand vaguely around at the room, like he’s trying to encompass the building, the palace, the fucking _empire_ in one arm movement.  “…thing,” he finishes vaguely. 

Oh.  Right.

You sit up for this.  Gamzee looks kind of distant, but there’s a sharpness to his eyes that makes you think maybe he’s paying more attention to the political games that go past him than you like to think.  You curl your fingers around his—his other hand is resting absently on his throat, one bony thumb rubbing at the spot where the needle went into him. 

“The deal I made when I came here still stands, Nitram,” you say warningly, as forbiddingly as you can manage—just in case he’s thinking of backing out to save face.  You don’t think he’s that kind of hypocrite, not considering how invested he is in the whole situation, but you know better than to trust a politician and for better or for worse life has shoved Nitram into that position.

“I know,” he says, and his eyes flick from you to Gamzee and back.  He’s being very careful—probably because he’s a shrewder piece of shit than you like to give him credit for, and he knows this subject makes you twitchy and angry.  “…I just thought…maybe now that Gamzee is awake…we should make sure it’s okay with him.”

Gamzee blinks.  He sits around when you’re talking politics with Nitram sometimes, but only to be there, to give his basically-a-matesprit big soppy grins and distract you with indecently open pale come-ons in the middle of your talks.  He’s not used to being brought into them.  He looks a little bit scared by the two of you watching him.

“…is what okay?”  He asks, and intentionally or not he leans a little closer to you, like he wants to huddle against you.  That hand on his throat presses a little harder and you see the tips of his claws leaving little purple lines in his skin.  “What’s up, what did I—”

“You didn’t do anything,” you say firmly, and at the same second Nitram says “—there’s something important we need to ask you,” and then you both stop and all three of you just stare at each other, waiting for someone to go first.

“…when Karkat called me,” Nitram recounts eventually, and Gamzee’s eyes flick to his face nervously.  God, does he still think he’s going to get kicked out or something?  He’s quadranted to two of the most powerful trolls in the universe for shit’s sake.  “He said he would let people know publicly that he was sort of…for the same things I’m for.  But he also made a deal that…” he pauses, clears his throat.  “…that when he goes out in public and tells them who he is and why he’s here…you go with him.  As…as his moirail.”

There’s a moment of silence.  Gamzee gapes at both of you for a long, long second, and if you knew him less you would see nothing but blank confusion.  But you see the wheels turning in his head, behind the expression—it always does take him a second to put the whole thing together, but you can almost see the moment he gets it.  His eyes go wide.

“…go up…go tell a bunch of motherfuckers, as is important to _the both of you_ bein’ in charge,” he says slowly, and Nitram glances at you—he looks honestly almost as nervous as you feel.  “…that _I’m_ …”

“My moirail,” you say, and again at the same moment, “—my matesprit,” says Nitram, almost defiantly, and for one or the other or both you hear Gamzee’s breath catch a little in his chest.  There’s silence for a long, long moment as he stares at the ground; you see Nitram’s hands twitch, like he wants to reach out but you meet his eyes and squeeze Gamzee’s hand gently, and he relaxes a little.  Nice to know he trusts you to take care of your own goddamn palemate at least.

“…’s…”  Gamzee finally starts hoarsely—he clears his throat, and swallows hard.  “…is it…gonna get you in trouble, if I’m around, like, if I’m—if we’re—”

“Actually it’s better to get it out there in the open now and take it head-on than it is to hide it and, uh…well, make a scandal, basically,” Tavros points out, and there’s something that drags at you about that and warms you up inside, whether you want to admit it or not—it never crosses his mind that he could break up with Gamzee and save himself the trouble of a personal attachment to this whole clusterfuck.  It doesn’t even register with him as an option.  “You can make the choice though.  We’re sticking with you either way. Well…” he half-shrugs.  “…well, I can’t really speak for Karkat I guess, but I really can’t even, um…I can’t imagine a universe where you two split up just because of, y’know, a couple of planetary governments.  That’s not the kind of universe I’d want to live in.”

You can’t help it—you snort at that, and then pretend he never said anything even slightly funny ever.  Gamzee cracks half a grin, and the way he’s looking at both of you makes your blood-pusher seize up and hurt inside you, fuck, he looks like he just found god.

“I’ll do whatever you want,” he says, and this time when he smiles it looks a lot more genuine.  “Brother, I can’t even start thinking about all the shit you two get up to, whatever you want me to do I’ll just follow on.  Gotta trust your friends.”

“—the ones as is bein’ to look out for you?” you quote back at him, a little bit acerbically, and he kind of winces and smiles at the same time. 

“Yeah,” he says, and he looks…sure.  He looks sure.  That’s good to see.  “Hell, I know how talk goes, if I’m not up there people are gonna say I’m, like, twenty feet tall and all wearing skulls for a hat and screwing your pans all to hell, right?  That’s how shit went when we talked about them that we…” he trails off, and you remember when he told you, such a long time ago, that he talked to everyone about everything, anyone who would listen, even if it wasn’t true.  You guess…he’d know, about rumors.

“Well—” Nitram looks like he’s just had a weight lifted off his shoulders.  He slumps a little bit, and rakes his fingers through his hair.  “…well, good.  Okay.  Thank you.”

“How long do we have?”  You ask briskly, and he straightens up.

“Oh,” he says, and coughs kind of uncomfortably.  “Uh.  Well, um…about that.”

\--

You get up at sunset the next night and there are people knocking politely on your door to get you dressed up to face your fate.  You thank what little luck you have that the homeworld hasn’t gone the way of some of the other planets in the empire and let their fashions turn ridiculous. They let you wear your favorite long coat, on the grounds that even if it’s kind of beat up (no shit, you’ve been on the run in it for sweeps) it makes your shoulders look broader and makes you look taller.  They let you keep your favorite style of black shirts, the kind with the high collars that cover as much of your skin as possible, but one of the people hovering around you rolls your sleeves halfway up your forearms while you’re busy getting some of your hair trimmed out of your eyes, and before you can roll them back they throw the coat on you.

It frames your sign on your chest.  Bright mutant red.

They give you two thin bracelets as well, the only jewelry you let them give you.  It’s in bright red, and you’d swear for a second when you grudgingly slip them on, your skin stings and twinges like it’s burning.  But when you look at yourself in the mirror, you don’t look half fucking bad.

Nitram meets you outside the door of the place you’ve been staying—some sort of extra house, from what you’ve heard, because he doesn’t like how fucking huge the imperial palace is.  He’s wearing his stiff jacket again, all in black with golden-brown on the collar and sleeves and his wings lying smoothly down his back like some kind of fluttering half-transparent cape.  He’s got the hoops in his nose and both ears again; two or three rings glinting on his square fingers.  He looks grim and nervous, but ready, and there’s a sort of dazed look to his eyes—you’re almost sure somebody just got through shooshing him.

Speaking of shooshing, he’s got Gamzee with him already when you get there.  He’s already dressed too—he didn’t need nearly as much dressing up.  He’s in black and grey and white, just a jacket and pants and a black shirt.  The collar just barely shows his bony collarbones—it doesn’t do a thing to hide the scars on his throat, and you feel a twinge of concern as he raises a hand to them absently and traces one with a claw.  His sign is worked into his jacket, and it makes you realize, suddenly, that you’ve never seen it before.  It’s a strange, looped shape.  It seems right for him, somehow.

He looks nervous, but not as terrified.  You pull him down by one shoulder on an impulse and kiss his head between his horns; he pulls himself back up and butts your foreheads together and some of the vague fear goes out of his eyes. 

The palace is a rush of activity.  Someone tries to put makeup on you and you casually elbow them in the face and tousle your hair when somebody tries to comb it down.  There are no good pictures of the Sufferer, but you’ve seen his face as the artists draw it, from descriptions passed down by generations or myths and rumors.  If you’re going out there as his descendent it’s sure as fuck not going to be with your hair combed down and your face covered in girly sludge.

You know the door when you come to it.  The palace is pretty dim, but there’s light on the other side of this door, and the sound of a whole _shitload_ of voices talking.

You hold Gamzee’s hand.  He glances down at you and nods, just once.

Nitram opens the doors.

The crowd is fucking enormous.  You stare out over faces and shirts and clothes embellished with yellows and oranges and greens, a few rust-bloods, a lot of browns.  They’re mostly looking at Nitram, as he strides forward— _strides_ , when did he learn to do that—but you can see the eyes flickering to you, and the way people lean towards each other and murmur things with the barest hints of whispers, barely moving their lips.  You glance over as someone clears their throat; it’s the man from the palace, the one with the lightning-bolt horns.  The fins he usually keeps pinned and taped and painted out of existence against his cheeks are spread and fluttering.  The bandages you always see just visible under the edge of his collar are gone. 

“We are graced by the presence of the sovereign of the glorious Alternian empire!” He announces, and you hear the slightest edge of a stutter and slur to his voice—you’re listening for it, and he’s almost trained it out of existence.

You think about the steps you took to stay unnoticed, unobtrusive, of the way he grimaces in pain sometimes and the bruising on his earfins when you finally got him to show you them—about how far and fast you had to run when someone found you, your landlord slaving away on broken engines and bent thermal hulls with rooms full of genius robotics made out of scraps, your moirail, so brokenly grateful just to have food and a place to sleep.  Hell, even the bitch who sold him, taking every filthy job she could get her hands on. 

Yeah.  Basically fuck this whole shitheap society.  You’re doing this.  You’re going to make this fucking happen.

“With that in mind,” Nitram is saying, although you really have fucking clue what you should be keeping in mind—some political bullshit, probably.  “…I’d like to formally announce the imperial alliance with the Sufferer’s blood heir.”

You take a half-step forward.  All their eyes are on you, curious, searching, waiting for you to make the first move.  Your ears feel hot.  Your thorax is all seized up.  Nitram, of course, chooses now to be all bizarrely calm and weird and not look nervous at all—although you can see the little twitches his wings are doing, hidden from the audience, and you’re pretty sure he’s at least as tense as you are. “Karkat Vantas.  And…his moirail.  Gamzee Makara.”

You can almost _feel_ the eyes on you harden and the interested looks freeze solid.  Gamzee’s hand squeezes yours so tight your bones creak.  He doesn’t try to smile or wave, like he normally does; the only movement to him is the forced, slow, even sound of his breath and the slight convulsive trembling that runs through him in waves. Whispers are running through the crowd.  He’s tall, ill-favored—he’s got _purple_ sown into the neutral black and white and grey of his clothes.  You know the rumors have been spreading for almost a perigee.  You know they know who he is, or at least they can guess, and their guesses might even be worse than the truth.  You almost know what they’re seeing, even though you can’t pick words out of the hissing mumble of the crowd. _How dare he, what’s wrong with them—_

“Is that a _purpleblood_?”  Someone says, just loud enough to hear, and you feel Gamzee’s hand twitch ever-so-slightly in yours.

“Mr…mm…Vantas,” says another anonymous voice, and it puts your hackles up just by the tone, the stupid stuck-up tone like its owner just had to pick up something disgusting.  “…we have reason to believe your…friend—who is supposed to be given free access to both you and his highness—was involved in a profession that was less than—”

“Oh,” says Tavros, sudden and quiet, and the crowd stills immediately.  There’s something very dangerous about how sudden and soft his voice is.  “…are we talking about his former and _perfectly legal_ profession?”

“…yes,” says the faceless voice of the shifting, murmuring crowd, and it sounds cautious now, but still not cautious enough.  They have the support of the crowd.  Nobody knows who they are so they can say what they want to and then get all puffed up because they think they’re fucking _brave_ and your moirail is just barely trembling next to you, close enough you can hear his breath rasp and shake in his chest.  “Your majesty, with respect,” ( _with no fucking respect, fuck you_ ) “—you have turned down hundreds of qualified candidates to work in the palace, including quadrant-mates of the few you have accepted.  And now you are allowing not only a purple-blood, but a common _street-walking_ —”

“Here’s an idea!”  You say, and you don’t have a microphone but hell, you have a squawk-blister that will do twice the job.  The asshole in the crowd shuts up to listen, and you step up next to Nitram.  From this angle you can see his face is perfectly calm and maybe a little sad.

His hands are grey-knuckled clenched fists, shaking behind his back. 

“Here’s an idea,” you repeat, a little quieter but not much.  “—how about if you have an issue you stop hiding like a fucking coward and come out here and tell me you think _saving lives_ is a bad thing, it’s either that or keep cowering back there like a wiggler who’s scared of their lusus!  Just keep shoving your ugly slimy hooves in your mouth, douchebag, I want to see if you can go so far down pointless-oozing-pus-sack road you shit them back out again!” 

The crowd goes quiet.  You can’t tell whether they’re silent out of fascination, confusion, affront, sudden respect, maybe all of the above, but you’re not going to waste the silence.  You step forward some more, put distance between yourself and the other two who are with you, and look for the faces that are still glaring at you.  You glower right back at them.  “I’m not even bringing Nitram into this,” you say, and he makes a tiny noise behind you—you don’t have time to worry about what it’s intended to tell you, though.  You’re on fire, you are _so fucking furious_.  “—you have a problem with my _moirail_ ,” you snarl, and fuck yes you are challenging them, “—you have a problem with _me._   Stand up like someone who isn’t a hornless quivering heap of runny hoof-beast shit and _YOU FUCKING TELL ME, FACE TO FACE_ that when our ancestors fought to free your sorry asses from the hemospectrum they wanted you to put it right back where it was you massive _festering BIGOTED_ FUCKWAD!”

There’s no uproar, but there’s the direct equivalent which is everyone gasps and then sort of huddles together and starts murmuring and staring.  You feel…better.  Actually yeah, that made you feel a lot better. 

Alright.  They wanted you because you were a mutant, because you’re the unlucky fuck with the nubby horns and the candy red blood.  They wanted you to be the Sufferer.

Fucking— _FINE._

“I’ll give a job under my _personal fucking care_ to anyone who can tell me who said this,” you declare, and now they’re _really_ confused, _excellent_.  You like them better confused, not sure of themselves and thinking they know better than everyone else, all secure in their chromist _bullshit._   “Tell me who said, ‘—where I stand, I don’t see a spectrum, I see a _circle_.’  Who said ‘tell me you would know apart our children without the colors we paint on them’!  Who fucking _said_ ‘if you climb over someone you better reach back down and _pull them the hell up after you_!’?!  Come on.  Who said that?”

There’s dead silence.  If anybody knows, they aren’t raising their hands, but you don’t see a hint of comprehension in even a single face.  In your peripheral vision, you see Tavros sort of start to raise his hand.  You flip him off.  He lowers it again.

They’re looking at you.  They’re holding their breath.  They’re listening.

“Okay,” you say, and you manage a tone sort of almost calm and even.  “…we’ll try something easier.  Tell me who said ‘there is a _cancer_ , and it is the power of the empire and all it stands for—‘” you don’t even finish the quote and hands are rising in the crowd, forming your ancestor’s symbol, voices are snarling _Sufferer, Sufferer._   Oh, you are going to puke BILIOUS ESSENCE OF PURE FUCKING HEINOUS RAGE ON THEM GODFUCKINGDAMMIT—  “—SHUT UP!” 

They do.  They don’t look discouraged.  They look expectant.  Oh, they are in the _shit_ now.

“Whose message brought this empire down?!”  You call out, and they glance at each other, baring their fangs, tensing up, grinning, and yell it back .  _Sufferer!  Sufferer!_ “Whose rage is this weighing on my shoulders like the ton of bleeding bodies we left _rotting_ after the rebellions?!” And they _howl_ for you, this is what they came for—a bloody sermon, a _show_.  “WHO DIED SCREAMING STILL WAITING FOR FUCKING _FREEDOM_?!”

They scream themselves hoarse.  You can see the cameras, this is going all over the empire, and you give it a long, deafening ten seconds before you hold up a hand.  They go silent immediately, staring at you like they want to rip you open and pull secrets out of your bones, and you feel sick and _incandescently_ furious and you feel like you’re standing on the edge of a cliff, swaying.

Oh well.  You have friends that fly.

“…Tell me who said,” you say, so quietly, and they lean forwards, holding their breath.  “… _I don’t see a spectrum.  I see a circle._ ”

Silence.  One or two people start to yell something, but it dies away into a confused silence.  They’re staring at you; faces slack, all that bloodlust and frenzy and it just slammed into that thought like a fucking tidal wave hitting a mountain.

And right into the silence, you hear a voice.

 _“…the Sufferer_ ,” says Gamzee, so quietly you can barely hear him.  His voice sounds strange, all thick and choked, and you turn back to him and see his face is pale and he looks like he’s barely standing, but he’s looking right at you like your every word is the most important thing in the universe. 

“Say it again,” you say, and if your voice comes out kind of hoarse and soft and there’s a whole crowd of bigoted assholes watching well fuck them, let them watch. 

“The Sufferer,” he repeats, and you remember the way he read the books you gave him, gaping, every little fact another miracle.  “It’s in that book, the red one you gave me, the book—”

“The Book of the Iron Infidel,” you finish for him, and you turn back to the crowd and smile at them with all your teeth.  “…funny how nobody talks about those sermons, isn’t it?  _Fucking.  Hilarious._ How nobody remembers anything but the cuffs.  The execution.  The fucking SCREAM!”  People jump and wince—your throat is raw but you don’t care, your voice echoes like what you’re saying means something and your moirail is standing next to you.  “You all fall down drooling at the mention of his name but _nobody_ cares what he preached his entire miserable _life_!  _If you climb over someone, you better reach down and help them up after you._  

“So yeah, my moirail’s blood is purple.  Our emperor’s blood is brown.  My _disgusting_ fucking blood is some heinous shade of red!  There’s a guy who works directly for me, best clerk or bodyguard I’d ever ask for, who has had to hide his _fins_ for _seven fucking sweeps_ after some gang of bulge-sniffing shit-heaps held him down—a _five-sweep-old!—_ and tried to chop them off!  You think we’re better than him?  We overthrew the entire fucking _empire_ because they did shit like that to us and now the only difference between some of us and her Imperious Condescension herself is how _warm_ your fucking _blood_ is?!  DON’T YOU DARE FUCKING WALK OUT, YOU PESTILENT BULGE-FUCKED INFLAMED MUSCLEBEAST’S WASTE-CHUTE!  YOUR ENTIRE MISERABLE COLONY HAS MORE HATE-CRIMES THAN THE OTHER THREE PLANETS IN YOUR QUARTER COMBINED, YOU _SIT DOWN_ AND GET _FUCKING SCHOOL-FED!_ ”

Someone starts to shout something—you point at the source of the sound and make a noise that is so angry you don’t even have words to express it anymore—she keeps trying to talk but you just basically _SKREEE_ at the top of your lungs until she shuts up, and nobody tries to raise their voice again after that.

“You wanted me to be my ancestor,” you announce to the crowd, and crack your knuckles.  “ _Okay._   Let’s go _all the way back._   Sit your asses down and shut your flapping maws.  _I’m going to recite you some motherfucking sermons_.”  You’ve been reading his sermons since you were small, you’ve been hating him and respecting him in equal measures, and the words are burned into your pan like the red-hot shackles. 

“The First Sermon,” you declare to the silent universe.  “Chapter one.  Verse one _._ ”

\--

Your name is Gamzee Makara and politics are scary shit.  Your palemate yelled from the moonrise to moonset at all the people from all the planets.  All of them.  Motherfucking _all_ of them.  He took questions and fired them back like he was winning wars with every single fucking word. 

He came back away and the second he was out of their eyes he just dropped to his knees and shook like to break in pieces.  You had to pick him up and carry him back, and he didn’t talk for days.

Now things are different.  Not all good.  Someone tried to kill you the other day and the only reason he didn’t make good on that wicked intention was that you’d gone and had a nightmare that jerked you back to yourself a second before he could.  You had to hit him hard on the back of the head and then spent the rest of the hour before Karkat showed up curled up in the corner breathing hard into your knees and not thinking about how good it felt to lay into him after the shit he shouted at you when you were fighting. 

It’s almost worse when you go outside—people call at you, someone screams from the wall, wants to know if you’re fucking your moirail, if ‘someone like you’ even knows how to be pale for someone without a bucket involved.  A couple more want to know okay then, the emperor?! And you ignore them just as much because _those_ times ain’t in no way their business. 

…besides, with you he ain’t the emperor, he’s Tavros, and how fucking gorgeous he is or ain’t with his clothes off is not their business either.  Suck on _that_ , motherfuckers.

Another perigee passes from “ ** _The Second Coming_** _”,_ and you get able to go out without being yelled at, even stand up on the walls and look out at the city some without too much notice or care.  You think there are eyes on you all the time anyway, judging what you are, what you want—it’s too much worry and bother to think about, so you just act yourself and let them get all acquainted with you as you are.

Your brother most motherfucking pale goes out and screams at people, and comes back worked up and tired and hoarse—you curl up around him and both of you keep each other floating.  Your matesprit looks like he don’t sleep nearly half as much as he should, but he still comes back to see you and he murmurs into your ear about numbers, laws, about people whose pushers are nearly as cold as yours and colder reaching up and looking for stars to fit in their hands.

You keep reading the book of sermons Karkat seems to have all carved deep into his pusher, and he keeps spreading them.  And Tavros keeps taking that whipped-up taken-apart world Karkat makes and pushing it together again, healing it into better, kinder shapes.  It’s pretty hard to be sure because honest to fuck you are pretty dumb, but you think, maybe…maybe there’s a good thing got its start on here.

You’ll have to wait and see.

\--

\--

“When you have a heart too heavy to carry, the only way to survive is to find someone strong enough to carry it for you.”

— Troll James Dean


End file.
